


Eternities

by rei_c



Series: Otherside [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Demons, Domestic Violence, Gore, M/M, Secrets, Summoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An end to this hunt, and the beginning of the rest of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternities

Their father meets up with them twenty-four hours after Sam came back to the room smelling of diner grease and a woman's perfume. It's earlier than Dean expected and he can only be thankful for small mercies; John catches them while Dean's cleaning weapons and Sam's surfing the internet, not arguing, not fucking, not in the middle of some thrice-damned ritual. 

Once they're all sitting around the motel room's rickety table, John says, "I found a few leads," before pausing, looking down at the table where his hands are entwined. 

Dean frowns, confused, looks across at Sam and is surprised to see his brother's face blank and expressionless. He'd been expecting an indolent smirk, a mocking smile, anything other than what he's faced with. His eyes jump to Sam's lips, study the straight line of them; he looks away quickly but not before Sam notices.   
    
"What?" Dean asks, addressing the question to his father though it could equally be directed to Sam.   
    
John looks up at Sam and then over at Dean, saying, a deprecating half-smile flirting around the corners of his mouth, "I wanted to ask what you boys would like to do."   
    
Dean can only gape but Sam leans forward, suddenly intent as he asks, "Our options? What _did_ you find?"   
    
"It's definitely a demon and it's definitely high up." John pauses, glances at Dean though most of his focus is on Sam. It's like their father knows that Sam is in control, that Dean can't do or think of doing anything without Sam anymore, even with the ritual they went through, even with the proof of Sam fucking someone else still clear in Dean's mind.   
    
"And?" Dean asks, willing his father to move on, to forget or ignore anything he might be thinking.   
    
John looks at him, steady, pupils dilating just enough for Dean to see. Their father looks back at Sam. "Word is, the demon we killed was Azazel, second in command to a demon named Lilith. There's a power vacuum waiting to be filled but there are too many trying. One of 'em decided to drum up some support on earth; that's the one people have tagged us with. One of my leads gave me a true name."   
    
Dean whistles. Getting a demon's name, their _true_ name, is almost impossible without the demon's consent. Whoever this lead is, male or female, they're good. "The name?" Dean asks.   
    
"Oriax," John says. He opens his mouth to go on but there's a sliver of reaction from Sam. Dean glances at his brother, frowns at the look. So does their father; he asks, "Sam?"   
    
"Oriax," Sam says, thoughtfully, carefully. "I've heard the name before. The _Goetia_?"   
    
"A shapeshifter," John says, nodding. "They say the demon has unnaturally blue eyes no matter the form. According to some of the other hunters, they've seen her as a wolf, a large cat, maybe a panther, a snake, a couple different kinds of birds, and a black fly. They think."   
    
Dean thinks about what a demon might do in the body of a wolf, a panther. He can't help a grimace and he can't help looking over at his brother. Sam appears completely calm, the way he did when the Síla-na-Gig appeared in the middle of Connor's empty room.   
    
"I'd like to do some research of my own," Sam finally says. "Maybe call a few people I know, drum up some more information if it's out there. Is there room in your plans for that?"   
    
John holds Sam's eyes for a long moment but eventually nods. "The more we have to go on, the better. And after that?" he asks.   
    
Sam leans back in his chair. He's thinking about something, thinking so hard that Dean can almost hear the cogs turning. "What are _you_ planning on?" Sam asks in reply.   
    
"We have to track her first," John says. "But I have my own contacts looking for weaknesses." John pauses, then adds, "You'll tell me if you find something? We don't wanna waste time doubling up on research."   
    
"Of course," Sam says. He stretches out, then stands up. Dean can only watch, sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, as Sam gives him a cat-like grin and says, "I'll call now," heading for the door.   
    
Dean watches until the door closes behind his brother. When he turns back to the research spread out on the table, he feels his father's eyes on him. He half expects John to ask; it would take _work_ for someone to miss the tension between him and Sam and their father's always been attuned to the moods of his sons.   
    
"We should move out once Sam's done with his call," John says. "We've been here long enough, and the last time I talked to Ash, he said all signs of Oriax point to somewhere out west, maybe Nevada. How long will it take you to pack up?"   
    
It's as if no one's listening to him, that they're all moving twenty times the speed he is. Dean would resent it except that he isn't saying anything and he hasn't moved since his father spread out the maps and research on the table.   
    
Nevada. That means thirty-five hours in the Impala with Sam. Thirty-five hours alone with Sam and their father setting the pace in the truck in front of them.   
    
"Ten minutes," Dean says. "Maybe fifteen, tops."   
    
John nods. "We'll stop on the other side of Memphis, get a couple hours sleep."   
    
\--   
    
They leave after a hectic twenty minutes, Dean getting everyone's gear in the two vehicles, John and Sam making a slew of phone calls as fast as they can. It's a quiet ride to Memphis and Dean doesn't say a word. Sam falls asleep after three minutes in the car; Dean's grateful. He thinks he can still smell the waitress's scent clinging to his brother.   
    
A few hours sleep parked in the far end of a truck stop, quick showers for all three of them in the morning, and they merge back on to I-40 without any fuss. Sam's awake and Dean's nerves are thrumming with the need to touch his brother; it isn't the connection between them, isn't the rune tugging, but he still wants nothing more than to pull the car over and spread Sam out across the hood, to kick Sam's legs apart and feel the heat from the car warm his brother's skin while Dean tries to bury himself in Sam as deep as he can.   
    
"Tell me why you did it," Dean says, staring fixedly out of the front window. He can hear Sam shifting but doesn't look at his brother. "The waitress at the diner. After we. Why'd you go back there?"   
    
Sam reaches over and places one hand on Dean's thigh. Dean tenses at the contact but can't help relaxing as Sam's thumb traces circles on the denim of Dean's jeans. There's no taut urgency at the touch, nothing that he remembers from the bond, stretched tight between them, and yet.   
    
And yet, his cock stirs at the touch and his mouth goes dry. Dean doesn't know how he's supposed to deal with his natural reaction to Sam any better than a magical reaction.   
    
He's too lost in his thoughts to realise that Sam's moving until he does. Sam's head ends up on Dean's shoulder, hair brushing against Dean's cheek. If he wasn't driving, Dean would close his eyes, try to capture this moment.   
    
"I wanted to know if it worked," Sam murmurs. "I had to know if it worked."   
    
"And?" Dean asks, throat tight.   
    
Sam hums, tilts his head to mouth at Dean's neck, right over the pulse point. "It worked." Dean wants to rage and snarl and scream -- even though Sam had been wearing, literally, the marks of Dean's need, their need for each other, he can still fuck someone else? -- but he grips the steering wheel and nearly drives off the road when Sam adds, "If you want me to explain it, I will, as long as we stop in the next five minutes so you can fuck me."   
    
Furious and turned on, Dean grits his teeth and focuses on the road. "You can't," he starts, has to stop when Sam's hand slides up Dean's thigh, fingertips brushing against the bulge in Dean's jeans. "Jesus _Christ_ , Sam, _stop_." For one moment, Dean doesn't think Sam will. He hovers on the brink of a precipice, black and yawning wide beneath him, but Sam's hand stills and settles lower, thumb rubbing back and forth. "Thank you."   
    
"So polite," Sam murmurs, words rumbling in his throat. Dean gets chills. "There have never been manners between us, Dean. What's changed? Will you tell me?"   
    
Sam's nose is cold where it presses against Dean's skin, the slight hollow behind Dean's ear breaking out into goosebumps before shivers travel down his spine. Dean's hands shake around the steering wheel, nothing to do with the gravel as Dean pulls off the interstate and puts the car in park. Two miles ahead, their father is carefully reversing down the shoulder.   
    
"You fucked a woman, Sam," Dean says. He stares straight ahead, doesn't make any movement to touch his brother. "Someone other than me. I thought you were over that."   
    
"In case you missed it," Sam whispers, "I'm a _whore_. It's what I do."   
    
Dean sees red, opens his car door and slides out from underneath his brother. He paces back and forth for a moment, finally reaches in and yanks Sam's shirt, pulls Sam out and lets him drop to the ground, no time to get his feet under him. Sam stays on the ground, looks up at him with big eyes and curls of hair fluttering in the wake of cars flying by them.   
    
"You," Dean snarls, "are not a fucking _whore_. Remember? And you aren't fucking anyone else again. _Ever_. _Understand_?" Sam rolls his eyes, opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off first, says, "If the next word out of your mouth isn't 'yes' or 'understand,' so help me _God_ I am going to kick your ass."   
    
Sam's eyes narrow and his lips flatten. He tilts his head, studies Dean, then lets loose with a curved smile all the more sharp for its corners. "Yes, Dean. I understand."   
    
Dean wants to drive that look off of his brother's face, _make_ Sam understand. He grabs the front of Sam's shirt, hauls Sam up and swings wildly, knuckles connecting with Sam's cheekbone, nose. Blood flies everywhere and Sam gasps, a short, sharp little sound that goes right to Dean's cock. He swings again, then throws Sam against the car, knocks Sam's head against the metal and wants to hear _crunching_ , wants Sam's blood staining the Impala's paint, wants to hear the noises of Sam's pain and smell _himself_ all over Sam, marking Sam as his territory, as Dean's _property_ , wants --   
    
Hands on his shoulders pull him backwards, send him reeling to the ground. Dean lands on his side, gravel digging into his palms and cutting them open. He snarls, then gasps as the sudden rush of a roadside friction burn clears his mind.   
    
"One of you better tell me what the _fuck_ is going on," John says.   
    
Dean flinches at his father's tone. It's almost a yell but there's too much angry demand underneath the words to be mistaken for anything but command.   
    
"Sorry," Sam says, peeling himself off of the Impala. His nose is bleeding, as is his mouth, and something about his cheekbone looks wrong, even apart from the bruise already blossoming around his mouth. "Slight disagreement."   
    
"We," John says, and though he's quieted down, there's nothing soft about _this_ tone, either, "are on a hunt. I expect you two to act like it. Fight it out if you have to but take it away from the side of the road, and do it on your own time, understand?"   
    
Sam agrees instantly, then wipes blood blood from his nose off on to the back of his hand.   
    
"Yes, sir," Dean says, and makes the mistake of looking at his brother. Sam's eyes glitter with amusement as he offers Dean a hand.   
    
Dean stares at that streak of blood on Sam's hand, then he takes Sam's hand and lets Sam pull him up.   
    
\--   
    
"Tell me what the _fuck_ that ritual was," Dean says, twenty miles down the highway. He's too wrung out for anger and all of his rage has transmuted into a tired plea, one that lacks all hope of an answer. "And what the hell it means for us now."   
    
"I already told you," Sam replies. "It."   
    
Dean cuts his brother off before Sam can start with the bullshit. "You told me it would change things enough so that we could lay off but you wouldn't die. You said the bond wouldn't be as, as insistent, that it would still be there but I wouldn't feel it as much. Sam, I still. I still want to fuck you, all the damn time."   
    
Sam's smile is serpentine, slow and sinuous as it crawls across his lips, as one of Sam's hands trails up and down Dean's thigh. "I just said you wouldn't _need_ to," Sam murmurs. "Not that you wouldn't _want_ to."   
    
Biting back the instant reply, Dean tries to draw together everything Sam said about the ritual. He has trouble, those small tidbits thrown out as they were between blow jobs and fucks, scattered among two weeks of anxiety and the utter fear that their father would notice _something_ and call them on it.   
    
"Okay," Dean says. "So I need to learn some self-control, fine. But you're still some kind of incubus, Sam, and if you aren't anchored to me, then every wanna-be looking for some action could call up some." Trailing off, Dean meets his brother's grin and sighs. "What? Can't you just tell me for once, 'stead of making me work for it?"   
    
Sam's smile fades, just a little, and turns into something soft and fond. It takes Dean's breath away. "Dean," Sam breathes. "You're such an idiot sometimes."   
    
Before Dean has time to be offended, Sam leans over and reaches under Dean's shirts and jeans, trails one fingernail over the rune he traced out so many weeks ago. Dean feels a slow burn in his belly, but he can see runes come to life all over Sam's skin, _nauthiz_ and _thurisaz_ and _isa_ , over and over again. The runes are faint but they're everywhere; Sam looks like he's glowing, skin tanned and the runes the colour of blood.   
    
"Your need," Sam murmurs. He takes his hand back and the runes fade into Sam's skin, as if they weren't there at all. "Dean, it's written all over me."   
    
"All of the time," Dean says, staring out of the window even though he's not paying attention to the road. "You can feed off of it _all the damn time_. Not just when we. Sam."   
    
Sam makes a noise -- Dean can't decipher what type it is or what it means -- and settles into his seat. "Drive. Dad's gonna be pissed off at us enough when we stop."   
    
\--   
    
John looks from Dean to Sam, then back again, eyes slowly scanning every inch of them both. "Wanna tell me what that was about?" The tone is mild but Dean isn't fooled by it, not one bit.   
    
"I had an idea," Sam says, before Dean can even open his mouth. "Dean didn't like it. We worked it out, though."   
    
"And what was this idea?" John asks.   
    
"I'm going to summon someone that can help us," Sam says, calm as he can be, as if the idea of performing a summoning isn't anything to worry about. Dean opens his mouth to argue, can feel his heart skip a beat, but Sam smiles before Dean can say anything. "It's something I've done before, from time to time. It's perfectly safe, even if Dean doesn't think so."   
    
On one hand, Dean's upset because Sam's speaking for him and they never talked about this; Sam never once mentioned it. On the other hand, Sam's telling the truth. Dean doesn't think this sounds safe at all. He looks at his father; John's eyes are narrowed, though Dean can't be sure whether it's in thought or something else, something measuring. 

"What are you planning on summoning?" John asks. He stops, shakes his head. "No. I don't want to know. What's the end result? What could possibly help us track down this demon?"   
    
Sam's smile turns sly. "A _cu sith_."   
    
Silence falls over the room. Dean's mind has gone blank but John's nodding slowly. "A fae tracker," John murmurs. "One that could follow a demon no matter the shape it's in. Clever."   
    
"They have their uses," Sam says.   
    
John makes a noise, then asks, "How will you get one? Any of the fae ranked high enough to own them would owe a _tiend_ to hell. It's possible they could refuse and use us as an in with the demons."   
    
Dean's brain has rebooted but it's moving slow, still stuck on the idea of Sam summoning one of the fae, a creature renowned for its cruelty and cunning. He thinks of Síla-na-gig, of Connor's Gaelic and everything Liam implied but never said. If there's one person who might be able to stand up to a fae and end up with nothing more than what he wants from the meeting, it would be Sam.   
    
"Sam has contacts," Dean says. "Probably the same ones he called when you gave him Oriax's name."   
    
Sam nods, spreads out his hands as if to say that he's not hiding anything, that he's laying his cards on the table. Dean doesn't believe it for a second. "They'll help," he says, as if there's no doubt in his mind.   
    
There's silence and Sam waits, as if he expects someone to argue. Dean's still trying to process the revelations Sam threw at him in the car, much less Sam and a fae, and their father's slow nod is all the approval Sam seems to need. "Good. I'll be back with one in an hour. Save me some food." Sam grins, then, and heads for the door.   
    
Dean reacts, seems like all he can do right now, though he can only say his brother's name, can't even move except to turn and watch Sam leave the room, minutes after they walked into it.   
    
"I don't want to know," John says, a minute later, once Dean's perched on the edge of the motel bed. "Dean. If I know, then."   
    
"He'll be fine," Dean says in a rush, cutting his father off. He knows what John was about to say -- _if I know, then I'll have to kill him._ It's something John's been worried about for years even though Dean never knew. John doesn't question Dean's hurry, though, so he knows that Dean's caught on. "He's trying to help, that's all."   
    
There's a long moment of silence before John says, "I used to think that the end justified whatever means were necessary to get the job done. I'm not so sure that's true anymore." Dean freezes; his heart skips a beat. "Keep a leash on him, Dean. You keep saying that he'll be fine, that he just needs time. Make _damn_ well sure you're not wrong about that. Understand?"   
    
Keep a leash on Sam. Right. As if anyone could, as if _Dean_ could. There's a leash and collar between them but Dean's not the one in control.   
    
"Yes, sir," Dean says.   
    
For a moment, so brief that Dean half-believes and wholly hopes he imagined it, his father's eyes are just as calculating as Sam's. Then it's gone, blinked away, and John's asking what Dean's in the mood to eat for dinner.   
    
\--   
    
True to his word, Sam comes back with a _cu sith_ and a bandage around his arm. The dog is huge, half again the size of an Irish wolfhound, and pure black, with gleaming green eyes. Dean does a double-take at the colour, glancing at his brother's eyes; it's exactly the same.   
    
"I had to bind it," Sam explains, his bandaged arm gesturing at the hound. "Until it returns to the fae, _I_ am its owner, for all and intents and purposes."   
    
"You should have healed," John says, standing up. His eyes take in Sam, the hound, and the way that Dean is standing, stiff and tense. "Why do you still have the bandage on?"   
    
Sam shrugs and grins. The smile doesn't reach Sam's eyes. "Habit," he says.   
    
John stands there, looks at Sam for a few noiseless minutes, then nods. "Get some sleep," he says, brushing past Sam and heading for the door. "We'll roll out in the morning."   
    
With that abrupt parting, Dean and Sam are left alone, save a hound that looks mean and grumpy at the thought of having to wait in order to track its quarry. Sam whispers something that Dean guesses is Gaelic and the hound whines, its ears pricking forward for the slightest moment. The hound doesn't move otherwise. With narrowed eyes, Sam growls; this time, the dog trots over to one corner of the room and circles before settling down and closing its eyes to sleep.   
    
"Do we have anything we need to talk about?" Sam asks. "Because if not, I'd like to get to the fucking."   
    
Dean blinks, finally gets his mouth working enough to say, "That sounds good to me."   
    
\--   
    
The sex is rough and vicious even though it starts off with Sam sliding to his knees and undoing the zipper of Dean's jeans with his teeth. As soon as Dean feels Sam's tongue lick his dick, Dean can't stand it anymore, can't wait or go slow or take it easy. He slams Sam to the floor, turns him over, and presses Sam's cheek against the floor hard enough for the carpet's imprint to immediately blossom into bruises.   
    
"So _fucking_ pissed off at you," Dean growls, ripping at Sam's clothes. "You keep all these _secrets_ , Sam, and I hate it. I _hate_ it."   
    
Sam blinks back tears as Dean grinds Sam's face deeper into the carpet. He's still smiling, though, when he says, "You gonna fuck it out of me, Dean? Because, man, I have to tell you. It's not going to help."   
    
Dean feels helplessness skitter its way up his spine even as he's scissoring two fingers in and out of Sam, fast and punishing without lube or any time for Sam to adjust. He's angry, so damn angry, but there's nothing he can do about it. There's never going to be anything he can do about it.   
    
"Come on, then," Sam says, clenching his ass tight around Dean's fingers. "Try and fuck it out of me."   
    
With a snarl on his lips and tears in his eyes, Dean fucks into Sam, intent on nothing but taking his own pleasure while punishing Sam. It's harder to hold on to the wrath, being buried this deep in Sam, no barriers between them, harder still when the runes on Sam's skin come to life and glow crimson as he feeds off of the overload of Dean's need.   
    
Dean wants to slow down and savour the feeling -- it's been _days_ \-- but Sam's urging him on faster and deeper and harder, letting all kinds of filthy words drip honey-slow and slick from his lips, and Dean can't resist.   
    
He feels orgasm start at his toes and begin barrelling through his body, and Dean pulls out and fists his cock once, twice, then comes all over Sam's back.   
    
"Not good enough?" Sam asks, as Dean's falling backwards, leaning against the bed as he catches his breath. "Too much of a whore to come inside me?"   
    
Dean shakes his head, intent on saying something, but then Sam sits up and stretches. Shame and horror leech the words right out of Dean's mouth. Sam's knees and arm have been rubbed raw; the only thing saving the other arm is that bandage still wrapped around Sam. Blood's congealed and there's a clear fluid leaking from the skin on Sam's knees while his palms are a bright, flaming red to match the friction burn on Sam's face.   
    
"Sam, I'm," Dean says, trailing off when the words fail. His throat is painfully dry.   
    
"I'll heal," Sam says. "I always do." He's looking down at his palms but Dean can see something moving in Sam's eyes, something old and dangerous. It disappears behind shutters as Sam gives Dean a look full of promise, of fever, and makes Dean think of the South: lazy summer afternoons in the bright sun and late nights hidden in the inky black of utter darkness, wet heat surrounding him and fitting better and tighter than any clothes.   
    
"A shower, I think," Sam says, standing up. By the time he's vertical, his wounds have begun to heal. They look better already.   
    
He waits for Dean to say something; when Dean doesn't, Sam nods as if he's had a question answered, and goes into the bathroom.   
    
Dean flinches at the sound of the lock clicking into place and he gets up, moves on unsteady legs to pull the bedcovers down, slide between the sheets. He listens to the water turn on and thinks of the suffocating, thick air of a Mississippi summer night, nearly strangling because it's too hot to breathe.   
    
\--   
    
He dozes off, must, because the next think he knows, Sam's leaning over him, looking at him with ancient eyes.   
    
For all that Dean prefers to spend winter in a place with no snow and barely any frost to think about, he never forgets that the South has things that bite and things that kill, things with sharp teeth and brimming with poison.   
    
Sam's look holds that edge as well, even as his lips hold the suspicion of a pleased curve, even as he closes his eyes and snuggles into Dean, even as he sinks into sleep and his breathing drifts into the rhythm of rising and falling, over and over again.   
    
\--   
    
It takes three months for the _cu sith_ to lead them to Oriax and, even then, Dean half thinks that the demon _let_ them catch up to her. Three months of skin-prickling tension whenever Sam is in the same room as John for more than an hour, three months of the most consistently mind-melting sex that Dean's ever had or dreamed of having, three months of the grumpy _cu sith_ following Sam with ever-increasing adoration.   
    
It's midnight, at a crossroads, and the _cu sith_ bounds out of the Impala when Sam opens the door, growling and practically spitting as it races toward the demon.   
    
" _Stad_ ," Sam calls out. The wolfhound freezes almost mid-run, whining as it lowers itself to the ground.   
    
"My thanks," Oriax calls out. The demon has picked a pretty host, dark and slight, maybe a woman with Italian in her heritage, but the eyes are a blue so piercing that its obvious they aren't natural. " I _so_ want to talk with you, Sam, and killing that, that _thing_ would take all of the fun out of it." She smiles coyly, head tilted, as she adds, "Of course, the fae you borrowed it from wouldn't like you very much if you were to get its little pet deader than hell or faerie could ever hope to raise it."   
    
Sam, already halfway the distance to the demon, laughs. The sound echoes through the fields around them and catches on Dean's skin, sliding over the flesh like a razor blade covered in satin.   
    
"You won't get a name from me, Oriax," Sam replies. Dean can't see his brother's face but it sounds like Sam's smiling.   
    
The demon shrugs, then checks her nails. "Thought it was worth a try," she says. "Not that I thought it would profit much. My brethren have been keeping a close eye on you, Sam. You've become much, much more than we ever dreamed for you. Much more, and much less as well."   
    
"So sorry to disappoint," Sam says, though this time the tone is dry.   
    
Oriax looks up, her eyes picking out Dean and John, both moving fast, with guns in hand, to surround her. She smiles, licks her lips. "No," she croons. "I don't think so."   
    
With a dismissive wave of her hand, they go flying, Dean landing in one corner of the crossroad and John in the one opposite. There's a force pressing down on Dean's chest, heavy enough to send a flash of panic through his body when his lungs struggle to draw in air.   
    
"Sam," Dean croaks out, before the weight spreads and covers him from head to foot, leaving him coughing and gasping to find breath.   
    
"That's better," Oriax says. "Now, I think we can talk."   
    
Sam joins her in the centre of the crossroads, the _cu sith_ drooling with hunger at Sam's side. "Is that why you're here?" Sam asks, as if he's had the same thought as Dean, as if Oriax made it easy for them to track her and _let_ them catch up to her. "You want to talk? Oriax, really. If all you wanted was a chat, you could have called me and saved us both the trouble."   
    
Oriax smiles enough for Dean to see, but Dean can also see that her smile is definitely not one of amusement. "I can make a deal with you, Sam," Oriax states, plain and simple. Sam doesn't respond to that, doesn't hardly move, so Oriax begins to circle Sam, the blue of her eyes catching every hint of light at the crossroads. "I can give you what you really want. I can give you what you've _always_ wanted."   
    
The _cu sith_ growls but Sam holds it back from pouncing. "Yes," Sam says. "I suppose you could. But at what price?"   
    
Oriax laughs and the sound reminds Dean of Síla-na-gig: soft and sultry with an edge of hard expectation underneath. "I think we're beyond haggling," Oriax replies. "Why, Sam. If I ordered, we both know you'd have a rough time refusing me."   
    
"What choice do I have, then?" Sam says, even as the dog under his palm raises its hackles and lets out a snarl that shakes Dean's bones. "Don't bother tempting me when we both know I'll never take the bargain. Order me, Oriax, and let's see how well you can handle my chain."   
    
"Very well," the demon says, still smiling. Her teeth are as bright as her eyes, bright and sharp. "Samuel Winchester," she says, echoes of command and something _deeper_ in her voice, something older, "kneel and give yourself to me, to do my bidding, as one of my own."   
    
With the dog snapping its teeth and standing tall, Sam sinks to his knees, head tilted upwards and eyes holding a dark gleam of amusement. John's growling just as much as the _cu sith_ but Dean's seen something in the cant of Sam's lips that he recognises.   
    
"Pledge yourself to my service, Sam," Oriax orders, stepping forward with light, casual movements. She stands in front of Sam for a moment, then crouches down, utterly dismissive of the dog. One hand moves up to cup Sam's cheek, her thumb rubbing the arch of Sam's cheekbone, and the other reaches out to press against Sam's breastbone. "Give yourself to me."   
    
Time hangs on the edge of a precipice before Sam's lips curve up into a grin. "No," he says, and lets go of the _cu sith_.   
    
With a snarl, the hound leaps forward and clamps its teeth on Oriax's neck, ripping the host's skin to shreds and spattering blood all over Sam. Oriax screams as the _cu sith_ 's teeth dig in deeper and rip muscle from bone before moving upwards and tearing the skin off of the host's face.   
    
The pressure disappears from Dean and, judging by the way his father is leaping up and drawing a weapon, John as well. Still, it's not quick enough to stop a column of black smoke as it emerges from the wrecked hole of the host's neck and makes to flood into the sky.   
    
" _Stad_ ," Sam says again, this time drawing out the sibilant and forcing something intangible but _powerful_ into the word. Dean can feel it pull on him, sees John stumble in the dirt as he moves toward the host's body. The _cu sith_ lets out a howl and Sam starts chanting something that weaves in and out of the hound's baying.   
    
There's a weight pressing down on Dean again, this time from whatever _Sam_ said and not Oriax's power. Still, though the force presses hard against him, Dean can still move -- it's hard, but he isn't helpless. Dean fights to get to Sam but stops in mingled shock and horror when he sees that the black cloud of Oriax's demon is being dragged back into the host.   
    
" _In nomine Patris_ ," John whispers. Dean looks at his father, sees the same expression on John's face that Dean can feel on his own. "Jesus Christ, Sam."   
    
Sam doesn't blink, doesn't stop, just keeps chanting. Oriax fights but the demon eventually streams back into the human; the host coughs and chokes on blood but her eyes are open and full of hate as Sam drops to a crouch next to her.   
    
"There's an old story," Sam murmurs, fingers tracing out the curve of Oriax's shattered and ripped apart cheek. She spits onto Sam, blood and spittle dripping from Sam's eyelashes, but Sam doesn't react at all. "You've probably never heard it, Oriax, but certain of your kin have, I know that. Amergin Glúingel once met a handful of you, though he had a _cu sith_ at his heels and a princess of the _tuatha_ on his arm. His Song drove the demons out of existence and his descendents can use the Song to do the same. A story," Sam says, leaning down to press his lips to Oriax's, "but true nonetheless."   
    
Oriax snaps her teeth at Sam, the demon doing what it can to hold the host body together long enough to heal it. "Bullshit," the demon rasps, the word dripping in blood and echoing with rattling breath. "You're not," she coughs, "a descendent of Amergin."   
    
Sam smiles and leans back, head tilted as he watches Oriax struggle. "A surrogate, then," he says, and rips the bandage off of his arm.   
    
Dean gasps, feels light-headed as he takes in what Sam's been hiding for three months, what Dean had completely forgotten about. It must have been the charm, Sam must have used it on both of them to keep Dean and John from ever questioning the presence of that bandage. 

There are flowers tattooed onto Sam's skin, flowers and vines and leaves that look as if they've been done in pure silver. The tattoos, silver tattoos, are _moving_. Dean can hardly breathe to look at them but the _cu sith_ barks happily and sits at Sam's side, its tail thumping against the ground as it leans forward and licks along Sam's tattooed arm.   
    
Oriax laughs, back arching as the action wracks the host's body with spasms. "Made a bargain with the fae," she gasps out between chokes. "That any better than with a demon?"   
    
"Not a bargain," Sam says, standing up. His tone, so warm and lush a moment ago, has turned cold as stone and twice as hard. "They owed me."   
    
He and Oriax look at each other for a long moment and she finally closes her eyes. "Do it," she says.   
    
With laughter dancing in his voice, Sam reaches down and pets the _cu sith_. "Go ahead," he tells the hound. "Eat."   
    
One happy whuff, another lick of Sam's arm, and the hound buries its muzzle in the wet meat of the host's throat. It doesn't take long until the demon inside flashes and burns with death.   
    
An acrid smell of ozone fills the air.   
    
\--   
    
"They owed you," John finally says. "The fae _owed_ you?" Sam nods and John's eyes narrow. "Why?"   
    
Sam returns John's look with one of his own. "Are you sure you want to ask that?"   
    
It's the first time that Sam's stood up to John and Dean's heart skips a beat to see it. Still, he doesn't hesitate to move to Sam's side, one hand resting on the gun tucked into his jeans. John takes his eyes off of Sam long enough to look at Dean, to take in Dean's stance.   
    
"You've charmed your brother," John says, attention back on Sam. Fury builds up to a raging inferno in John's eyes. "After all of this, you _charmed_ your _brother_. I can't believe I trusted you. Can't believe I."   
    
John stops mid-sentence but Sam's laugh coils through the air, surrounds the three men like something tangible and full of sharp edges. "You let me live," Sam croons. "Isn't that what you were going to say, _Dad_? You let me live and I repaid you by turning my particular gifts on Dean." Sam shifts on his feet, smiles, and says, "You're right."   
    
"It's not like that," Dean says, trying to break the tension between his father and brother. "Dad, it's not like that at all, okay? I knew, I've known all along. It's my choice."   
    
"No," John murmurs. He doesn't take his eyes off of Sam. "No, it's not. You only think it is."   
    
Dean almost sways back on his feet; it hurts to hear his father dismiss him so easily, to take all of what's happened between him and Sam and reduce it to mind-control. He presses closer to Sam, arm touching arm, and the runes on Sam's skin flare up almost instantly. "You think this is Sam controlling me?" Dean asks his father, taking his gun out of his jeans. "You think this is all some, some, some _plot_ or something, Dad? Fuck you, okay? He's my _brother_."   
    
"And you fucked him for the first time when he was, what, fifteen? Sixteen?" John snaps back. "In no universe would you have _ever_ thought about that without outside help."   
    
Sam's head tilts to one side and he studies John for a moment before saying, "You went to San Francisco. When Dean was tracking me?"   
    
John nods, once. "I talked to Frankie and he pointed me toward a guy named Liam. Amazing what loyal friends you have, Sam; it took forever to get him to talk. But, then again, you charmed him, too."   
    
"And what else have you found?" Sam asks. "Between everything you found before I left, and now from Liam, I'm surprised you haven't killed me already."   
    
It's a dead giveaway: John's eyes flick to Dean, just for a split-second. Dean's blood runs cold and turns to ice; he remembers what Sam told him in front of Síla, that their father would never be able to kill Sam if he knew how much it would hurt Dean.   
    
Dean wishes he could get upset about the way that Sam's manipulated them all, about the way they're standing here in some kind of stand-off, about the future he can feel for them, but, in a perverse way, he's _proud_ of himself.   
    
Sam's alive because of Dean; no matter what it takes, Dean has always and will always do whatever it takes to keep Sam alive.   
    
"This can't go on," John says.   
    
Just from that, Dean knows they've won.   
    
"Sam and I have bound ourselves together," Dean says. "There's no way to undo it. If you kill him, I'll die as well. You either take us together, as we are, or we'll go." John sighs, starts to say something, but Dean cuts his father off. "There are benefits, Dad. Look at how quickly we killed Oriax, not just exorcised but _killed_. Sam has _gifts_ and skills and contacts all over the place; he's a better hunter than both of us put together."   
    
John shakes his head. He looks at Sam as he says, "You're my son, and I'll always mourn you," before turning to Dean. His eyes are sad but his jaw is set, shoulders tense but unyielding. "And you. I should never have trusted you to fight it off. Damn it, Dean. I raised you better. I raised you to _kill_ things like him. How the hell could you let this happen?"   
    
Dean's trying not to let the hurt he feels show on his face but it all disappears the instant John raises his arm and aims a gun in Sam's direction. The hurt vanishes, caught up in a maelstrom of possessive anger. He lifts his own gun, points it right at his father's face, and wavers on his feet as Sam sighs.   
    
There's lust in the sigh, humour and defeat as well, as the sound seems to grow and swirl around the crossroads, feeding off of the air.   
    
"I've never focused the charm on you," Sam tells their father. "And I don't want to now, but I will if I have to. Put the gun down, Dad. You don't really want to shoot." Dean can barely stand with the onslaught of Sam's power but the gun doesn't waver in John's hand. "Put it _down_. You don't want to hurt Dean now, do you?"   
    
There's a minor shake at that, some loss of resolve in John's eyes, but then, almost as if he can't control himself, John shoots. Sam shudders but simply smiles even as Dean looks over and sees blood staining the shoulder of Sam's shirt.   
    
"I'll heal," Sam says. "But thank you."   
    
"For what?" John asks. His voice is hoarse and the words are shaky.   
    
Sam reaches up, undoes his shirt, and pulls the bullet out of his arm, drops it on the ground in between them. "For showing Dean that you really would kill me, given half the chance."   
    
Dean's eyes widen; their father doesn't miss, not unless he wants to, but he was willing to shoot his own son, to shoot _Sam_. That's, he's not, no one can _do_ that, not with Dean standing right there. It's all Dean can do not to return the favour. Instead, he reaches out for Sam, pulls everything he can from every inch of his brother. With the runes on Sam glowing crimson, Dean moves faster and smoother than he has before in his life and punches his father, drawing blood and knocking John to the ground with one swing.   
    
"If you _ever_ come near us again," Dean snarls, and then Sam's pulling him away, out of the centre of the crossroads.   
    
Dean gets to the Impala but John says, "If you get in that car before we're done, you can't come back, not ever. If you leave, you'll both be hunted. It might be me, it might not, and it might not even be right away, but hunters _will_ come for you."   
    
"We're good at hiding," Dean replies, and gets in the car once he's made sure Sam has, slamming the door.   
    
Dean guns the engine, squeals the tires as they race away, dust clouds kicking up behind them. Dean doesn't look in the rearview.    
    
An hour later, Sam says, "You didn't have to, Dean."   
    
It's the first time Dean's heard his brother ever sound so hesitant. Dean's mind races. He remembers the way Sam looked in that motel outside of Indianapolis, the way Sam manipulated him and Liam, that Sam killed Connor and let a _cu sith_ eat out the throat of a demon's host. Sam and the way he looked when Dean found him at Liam's place. Sam, glowing with the runes spelling out Dean's need and want and desire. Sam's teeth, white and sharp. Sam's gifts. Sam's unnaturalness. Sam.   
    
"Shut up," Dean says, pulling to the side of the road, "and get your fucking jeans off already."


End file.
